Back Through Their Hell's Own Gate
by caithream
Summary: Sam learns the hard way that not all possessions they have to worry about are demonic.


There was a general rule among hunters like themselves to stay away from anything that had to do with deaths of the serial killer variety

There was a general rule among hunters like themselves to stay away from anything that had to do with deaths of the serial killer variety. Tragic though they were, no one could afford cops on their tails because they had somehow found the sadistic son of a bitch and did unto him as he had done to others, or because they'd managed to fuck up the situation even worse while trying to quell the restless spirits while the killer was still on the loose. Usually didn't end pretty, either way.

If your name was Sam Winchester, though, all you could do was roll your eyes as your brother took those rules, ripped them up, set them on fire, and _then_ tossed them out the window.

Brutal murders were fertile ground for angry spirits, and whoever the "Wahoo Killer" was (so dubbed by the locals in Wahoo, Nebraska; Dean had had a field day with the name), he was making sure the soil stayed rich. As if the city wasn't devastated enough, odd, near-fatal accidents and terrifying whispers through the trees kept some on the verge of breaking, the amount of for sale signs throughout the neighborhoods evidence enough.

This particular nutjob had a thing for claustrophobia, with a little nyctophobia thrown in for good measure. Having his way with someone and then burying them alive in a tight little coffin in the dark earth certainly wasn't innovative as far as serial killing went, but it was more than enough to let loose the angry spirits of those he had killed.

Dig, salt, burn. Nothing new in that equation. Though there was something that had caught Sam's eye while he researched.

"There's a pattern," he mumbled half to himself as he cut through the dirt with his shovel. "Why the hell _would_ there be a pattern? Does he _want_ someone to figure it out?"

"No idea," Dean grunted back, pausing to wipe the stinging sweat from his eyes. "Though I gotta tell ya', the cops around here have gotta be complete dumbshits. How the hell have they _not_ discovered where the bodies are? Jesus, we had this case solved in like, five days."

Sam didn't even look up from the dirt. "You want a gold star?"

"What I _want_," Dean said, grinning when his shovel scraped something wooden. "Is to light something else on fire. Gimme." Sam threw the salt canister to Dean and then came to join him with unearthing the third crate-like coffin they'd found. The previous two were old enough that the wood had nearly crumbled when they put their shovels through it, mere skeletons inside with bits of tissue still clinging to the dull-colored bones, their jaws fallen open in silent terror.

"Sick fuck," Dean had muttered before pouring the gasoline.

"This…" Sam squinted in the dim light of their flashlights when the coffin was nearly uncovered. "This looks a lot more recent."

"Yeah," Dean said, and raised the shovel to smash it open.

Three things happened all at once the second he broke though the coffin: Sam formed the word "wait" on his lips, the sound not quick enough to reach his vocal cords, their flashlights sputtered and died, leaving them in almost total darkness, and Dean dropped to the ground holding his head between his hands, shouting in agony.

"_Shit_," Sam said, scrambling out of the hole in the ground, frantically thumbing his flashlight on and off, growling in frustration when it stayed dark. He threw it down and grabbed Dean by his wrists while Dean made a horrible keening noise in the back of his throat, his eyes squeezed shut.

"Dean, c'mon, shit, _Dean_. Hey, c'mon man, that can't've… _shit_." Dean either ignored him or didn't hear him, caught up in some internal anguish that stole his breath, his chest shuddering rapidly and sounds of distress becoming louder instead of tapering off. Somewhere in the back of Sam's mind he _knew_, but he didn't want to make it a full-formed thought, not yet, not until he was sure. "Dean," he said again, forcefully, had to be sure, had to be sure.

Sam nearly toppled on him when Dean suddenly thrashed out, throwing his arms out every which way to try to dislodge Sam's grip on his wrists. "No," he moaned out, almost a sob, frantically trying to claw at his own throat, gulping in air like it was the last on earth. "No no nonono! Stop! _Stop_!" It was shrill, disturbingly odd to hear coming out of Dean, and Sam ignored the way his stomach dropped and instead shook him hard, shouting his brother's name in one last ditch effort.

Not only were Dean's eyes terrified when he opened them, but they were brown.

"W-what," he shuddered out, unfamiliar eyes wide and looking around frantically. "I don't—I don't—"

Sam was working on choking back the surprise, finally doing so with a tight grimace, and steadied his hands under Dean's jaw and around his neck, forcing Dean to look at him.

"Hey," he tried for calm, "you okay? You all right?"

Dean's face immediately crumpled, indication enough that no, he was very not all right. "Please," his voice wavered, hardly there, tears of panic sliding down his face. "Don't let him, _please_, you have to help me, God, don't let him—"

"It's okay, it's okay. He's not coming back," Sam lied, and then internally steeled himself. "What's your name?"

At that Dean's frantic eyes settled back on Sam. He made a faint panicked moan, and then his breathing ratcheted up again, his face draining of color. "Who are you? Who—what—" And even though Sam was holding his face, he couldn't stop the glance down, _here_ and _now_ finally registering, the imminent spike of confusion that made the pulse under Sam's fingers thrum erratically, and Sam could only watch, helpless.

"This isn't me," Dean's voice said, near to hysterics. "This isn't—who _are_ you, I don't know what happened, I don't _know_—"

Sam was ready when those brown eyes rolled into the back of Dean's head, easing his forehead on to Sam's shoulder as Dean slumped bonelessly forward.

"Awesome," Sam mumbled, sighing.

* * *

Sam was decidedly not freaking out.

There was a process to this. Sam liked processes. He liked steps, going from point A to point B in one easy move, a set list to accomplish, a to-do list.

Problem was that human emotion tended to fuck things up significantly along the way.

He sat in the chair farthest away from the bed where he'd dumped his brother and uninvited tagalong, not really wanting to startle whoever would wake up because he happened to be _looming_ or whatever. So chair it was, though he could barely sit still for all the churning in his gut, his body turned towards the bed, fingernails tapping a steady nervous rhythm on the scuffed wooden table beside him.

Not freaking out. Nope.

It was at least another hour before Dean shifted and groaned, his hands coming up to his chest and throat in a skittish, jerky manner, like he wasn't sure if those body parts still remained intact. Finally he sucked in a quick breath and surged upright, breathing haggard and eyes unfocused.

Sam fought the urge to be at his side as quickly as possible and instead waited for Dean to come back to himself.

It was apparent after a few long minutes that he wouldn't. Not without some help, at least.

Slowly, not-wanting-to-terrify-a-tiny-animal slowly, Sam stood and made his way to the bed. He crouched just as slow to Dean's eye level (still brown, _still brown_) and put a hand on his knee.

"Dean?" he said softly.

Dean jumped back as if burned, his head cracking against the wooden headboard. "Don't touch me," he said shrilly, wildly. "D-don't _touch me_."

Commence step number one. As much credit as Dean gave him for it, he really, really disliked this step.

"It's okay," Sam said, turning his palms upright, trying to convey harmlessness. "I'm not going to hurt you, I swear. I just wanna help you."

Still not a flicker in Sam's direction. Dean stared at the brown carpet, breathing through tightly clenched teeth.

"Listen," Sam continued. "We—I found you, okay? Can you—can you tell me what happened? What you remember?" He winced, slightly, he himself knowing full well what had happened; he just hoped the memory would jump start the mind of… _whoever_ was in there.

Nothing. Sam bit back a sigh, tried again. "What's your name?"

"Leanne," Dean muttered, scrubbing the backside of his hand over his eye. "Leanne Holtz."

_Oh_, Sam thought. _Oh shit_.

Not that he would have ever figured spirits to be gender-specific, he just never really thought about it. Much less his own _brother_ getting possessed by a spirit of the opposite sex.

It made Sam's lips tremble in either laughter or complete hysteria, he wasn't sure which.

"Leanne," he repeated, hopefully keeping his voice steady. "I'm Sam Winchester. I know this is probably confusing and a little scary, but I need you to trust me, okay? We're gonna fix it. Just—"

"I tried hitting him but he wouldn't stop. I tried biting him," Dean's voice was dull, Leanne suddenly playing catch up to Sam's earlier question. His curiosity had turned into revulsion, no more wanting to hear Leanne describe her own death than she wanted to explain it, but he bit down on his lip and kept silent. "He just hit me harder. And then his… he choked me really hard and I think I passed out." She used Dean's fingers to clutch the hem of Dean's shirt tightly. "And then I—and then I woke up in the dark. And I cried a lot and I screamed and I hurt my nails really… really badly and I don't know… I don't know what happened after that. I think I fell asleep again." She looked up at Sam then, Dean's eyes wide and glassy with unshed tears. "I didn't really fall asleep, did I."

It wasn't a question, but Sam answered her anyway. "No," he said softly. "We – my brother and I – found your body in a coffin. You—your spirit was trying to escape."

Leanne nodded as silent tears trailed down Dean's cheeks, arms hugging his body as she looked down at the carpet again. "It feels weird," she choked out.

The slight digression into step two. It was easier than step one, mostly because over the years it had become mechanical, _find person, save person, give person brief rundown about the dark things that burrow their way into normalcy, shatter person's world beliefs, try not to feel too guilty about it when you leave, etc., etc_. This, though. It almost shamed Sam to think that this meant _more_ just because it was actually personal, this time. This could go wrong in a lot of ways, and due to Dean's body being the vehicle, Sam wasn't too thrilled about it.

"My brother, Dean," he said, "we hunt things for a living. Put spirits to rest, make sure other things stay well within their boundary. The guy who did this to you… he killed a lot of other people before you. And sometimes the spirits of people who've been murdered become angry and violent and lash out without really being aware that they are." He paused, stomach clenching slightly at the utter desolate look on Dean's face, reminding himself that no matter what his eyes told him, this wasn't _Dean_. "That's why we came. These angry spirits were hurting people, so we had to put them to rest. And when we opened up your coffin I guess… I guess you were desperate. You latched on to whatever you could get." He gestured to his brother's body. "You got Dean."

Leanne sat silently for a while, only letting a few more tears slip by. "How do you put a spirit to rest," she finally whispered. Sam clenched his teeth tight and grimaced.

"Burn the body," he said. Leanne squeezed her brown eyes shut.

Sam stood, unfolding himself from his crouched position. "We'll figure this out," he said, sincerely meaning it. "I promise." She slowly slid down from the headboard, curling in on herself.

"I don't want to be dead," she said into the bedspread.

Sam couldn't think of anything to say in return.

* * *

Sam made sure she was well asleep before he returned to where their grave digging had been so interestingly interrupted.

The shovels and flashlights and canister of salt still sat right where they left them, the dirt still piled high, the single splintering crack in the wood of the coffin-like crate still hiding the body beneath.

Sam broke it open the rest of the way without a single thought otherwise. The body - _Leanne_, he thought – was freshly dead, a dark necklace of purples and reds around her small neck, her fingers almost bloody stumps, the fingernails long gone in any attempt to claw her way out of her prison. Sam felt a jolt of nauseousness go through him at the thought of it. She had been short and maybe just younger than himself, long brown hair tangled in the splinters and matted to the side of her face. Sam pursed his lips and angled the flashlight away, not wanting to stare, not wanting to put a face to a name. Not wanting a superimposed face of victim over victim later on.

The body lit like any other body he and Dean had burned before. The only difference was that this time Sam was fervently praying that this particular spirit would truly be at rest.

* * *

There was only one way to make sure Leanne's spirit had moved on, but Sam _really_ didn't feel quite keen on waking up whoever would stake claim on consciousness. Fortunately (or unfortunately), he didn't have to.

"Sam." Dean's voice was quiet in the dark as Sam shut the door behind him. He paused, internally scrambling to figure out how he should respond. "Yeah?" he finally said.

"You burned my body."

He swallowed. It hadn't worked, then.

"Yeah," he replied, lowering himself on the bed across from her. The palest blue from the nearly full moon outside filtered through the curtains, a barest glow illuminating Dean—_Leanne_ on… _her_ stomach, arms curled underneath the pillow.

"I could feel it," she said.

_Jesus_. "I'm sorry, Leanne. I thought—I thought it would work."

She sat silent for so long that Sam thought she had fallen asleep.

"I want him dead," Dean's voice coming out hoarse and full of something that Sam had heard hundreds of times before. "I want him—I want him to die."

Vengeance, then. They had both donned that suit for so many years it was just another part of their everyday wardrobe. But Leanne's sudden want for vengeance wasn't just single-minded determination; it would become an all-consuming _need_ that would only end in one way. And Sam had no reservations about helping.

"I know," he said. "And I know you don't want to, but try and remember everything you can about what happened. Where you were, what he looked like, what he said. But for now just try and get some rest, okay?" Leanne nodded, mollified for the moment, eyes already drifting shut. Sam couldn't help but see the double-image of her young face over Dean's, helpless in death.

His shower lasted longer than usual, trying to rid himself of the smoke that had soaked into his skin.

* * *

The next morning they were both up early, neither having slept much. Leanne was still slightly unsure in Dean's body, moving slowly and reflexively ducking underneath lower architecture. She had come out of the bathroom patting herself down after a change of Dean's clothes and looked to Sam's eyes for confirmation.

"This is okay?" she asked, tugging on the blue outer button-down.

"Yeah," Sam said, mouth quirked in a small smile. "But that?" he pointed to Dean's amulet still hanging around his neck. "Does not come off, no matter what." Leanne nodded seriously.

"Yeah, I kinda… yeah. I know."

It was only a five minute drive from their motel to the nearest pancake house, but Sam still felt like he was on the wrong side of the bench seat anyway.

"Feels so weird," Leanne mumbled with a frown as they slid into the booth. "Just… looking in the mirror and seeing a different face. Being _really_ tall. Probably kind of weird for you too, huh."

"Just a bit, yeah," Sam said with a wry grin. "But given our line of work, you kinda get used to the weird stuff after a while."

They ordered, and Sam couldn't help but watch as she sat with Dean's hands underneath the legs of his jeans, shoulders rigid and arms pressed close to his body, rocking back and forth slightly with the balls of his feet as she stared out the window. He wondered how old she really was.

"So," he said, hoping this wasn't going to cause more damage just for the sake of simple conversation. "You originally from around here, or…." Her eyes snapped back to him, a little wide and disbelieving, but after a moment she relaxed and shook her head.

"No," she said. "I go to school in Lincoln, but I've been up here before, I think. It's been a while."

"Yeah? What're you studying?"

"Poly-sci," she said, giving a shy grin. "I love it, I mean, I haven't really gotten to the higher up stuff yet since I'm only a sophomore, but I really like it."

"That's awesome. I uh, took a handful of poly-sci courses myself during college, so I know the appeal."

"Ooh, really?" she cocked Dean's head, curious. "What degree do you have?"

"None. Something pretty major came up in my life before I had a chance to finish." The hurt that had blanketed that fact had lessened to a minor twinge nowadays, and Sam felt surprisingly okay with that.

"Oh," Leanne said, wincing. "I'm sorry." Sam shrugged.

"Nah. Don't be. I think I've gotten all those urges to pull all-nighters out of my system by now anyway." She smiled, finally seeming to relax, if only slightly.

They made small talk while they ate, dancing around the subject they both knew had to come up but both staving it off for just a while longer. Leanne ate three pancakes, two eggs, two pieces of bacon, and Sam's toast, and then just stared down at her plate when she was finished.

"I can't believe I ate all that and I'm still hungry," she muttered abashedly. Sam chuffed a laugh.

"My brother's kind of a bottomless pit when it comes to food. Guess I should have warned you."

The waitress took their plates away, and Leanne reverted back to the same position she was in before they ate, nervous. Sam twisted the end corner of his napkin and looked up at her seriously. She tensed in anticipation.

"I told you we were gonna fix this, Leanne, but in order to do that I need your help. I need you to tell me everything you remember, okay? You said before that he… made you unconscious and _then_ you woke up in that box. Do you remember where you were or what day it was when he did?" She swallowed, and Dean's voice came out small.

"I was just… walking to the grocery store a few blocks from my apartment. In Lincoln. I didn't even hear him. He just grabbed me and pulled me into a deserted side street. It was um. It was a Monday because I had just gotten back from my comparative politics class." Sam nodded, keeping his voice soft, encouraging.

"Can you remember what he looked like?" She took a breath and shuddered as she let it out.

"He was… old. Older. Maybe in his fifties. Short brown hair. Kind of tall and skinny. He wore those kinds of glasses with the really big frames. Like from the '80's, you know? He smiled and his face… his face was _terrible_…." Dean's face twisted horribly as Leanne relived her past, and Sam lightly touched his brother's arm to bring her back.

"Leanne. It's okay. We'll stop for now, okay? Just calm down, its all right." She scrubbed a hand over her brown eyes, wiping away stray tears.

"No, I want to, I just. I want him dead. I want him _dead_, for touching me, for thinking he could just _do that_ and get away with it, I want him to _die_." She ended on a muffled, angry sob, and Sam decided now would be a pretty good time to move the rest of this conversation somewhere a little more private.

"C'mon," he said, throwing a few bills down on the table. "We'll go see what more we can dig up online, okay?" Sam ignored the odd stares they got from Dean's crumpled features as he led her outside. When they reached the car she opened the passenger side door and fell into the seat, curling away from Sam, head against the glass. Sam turned the key and the engine roared to life.

He needed to figure this out and fast. Sam had no idea how Dean's mind would deal with all of this, being taken over, becoming steadily and more deeply entrenched in a hate that was not his own. Not to mention the fact that he missed _Dean_, because even though he was looking at the same face and hearing the same voice, it wasn't _him_.

He was so deep into thought he didn't notice Leanne's white knuckle grip on the seat, nor her steadily deepening pant for air until she spoke.

"I can't breathe, Sam, I can't _breathe_, oh fuck—" She scrambled for the door latch, fingers clumsy with panic, and Sam swore, bringing the car to a screeching halt on the side of the road before she flung herself out. Leanne bolted out of the vehicle before it could even come to a complete stop and she tripped, falling to hands and knees on the earth, drawing in ragged breaths.

"Jesus," Sam said, eyes wide as he came around the side of the car. "You okay?"

She slowly fell backwards until she was on her ass, head lolling on warm, dark metal of the Impala. "Fucking coffin," she muttered raggedly, not looking at Sam.

_You dumbass_, Sam thought, closing his eyes and rubbing a knuckle over his temple. Leanne had _died_ within the clutches of full-on claustrophobia, and he didn't even have enough sense to at least roll down the windows. He lowered himself down on the dusty earth and sat knee-to-knee against her.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I know I keep saying it, but we're gonna fix this. I promise." _I promise, Dean._

She just nodded sadly, and they sat together for a while, just breathing.

* * *

"I _told_ him there was a pattern that night." He took a bite of his chicken sandwich and wiped his face, and then held out his hand towards Leanne. "Gimme the list of missing persons again."

Leanne sat as cross-legged as she could in Dean's body on the bed with papers, folders, two double cheeseburgers, and a large fry surrounding her. She swiped her fingers on Dean's jeans and Sam held back and amused smirk. "Uhh…" she twisted around, finally spotting the printed black and white papers. "Here."

Nine people missing in the same vicinity, all roughly within sixteen days of each other, give or take a day. Another eleven people missing from nearly three years ago, but Sam wasn't worried about that cycle of killings just yet. Of course just because they were to be reported missing on a certain day didn't mean they had _died_ on that day as well. So what would have someone killing on a roughly fifteen day cycle?

"Maybe he just doesn't like his bi-monthly mortgage payment," Leanne muttered when Sam wondered aloud, rifling through the day's newspaper. "What?" she said when she saw him staring. "I worked in an office and helped take care of that shit. I'd get a little cranky too if I had to pay as much as some people." Sam just snorted and shook his head slightly.

Bi-monthly, Sam thought. Not monthly. Why bi-monthly? Maybe it was just an aggravated yuppie too fed up with credit card bills. Except… bills weren't the only thing to cycle in such a fashion.

Sam pulled up his bookmarked lunar cycle page on his laptop, putting the date back four months ago. He flipped to the printed page of the first person missing, squinting in confusion when it didn't even come close to matching the date of the full moon for that month.

_Not the full moon_, he scanned his eyes backwards over the dates. _The half moon_.

Sure enough, Gerard Mayfield's death coincided exactly with the first half moon of that month.

"Half moons," he said excitedly, turning his laptop around to face Leanne and pointing to the highlighted date on the page. "Whoever this guy is, he's cycling his murders around the half moons. If we go to this month…." Sam changed the date and pointed to the screen with the edge of the paper. "Monday. You said the last day you remember was a Monday, which was also the first half moon for this month. Still got one more half moon to go in… shit, five more days. Dunno if we have time to find and track down this guy, but Dean and I have done it before in less—"

"Wait, _wait_," Leanne interrupted, her fear shown clear on Dean's pale face. "I don't understand. On a half moon? Why? That's… what's the point? And how can you be so sure? What if he's just killing and it just happens to fall on those dates?"

Sam paused in his frantic shuffling of papers and looked at her. "He might. And I'm not sure. But it's the only thing that connects, and I'm willing to run with it. As for it being on the half moon?" Sam shrugged. "There've been plenty of serial killings that have been based around less. He could just be a psychotic headcase that thinks this'll somehow balance out his astrology, or something. The 'why' doesn't matter. What matters is now we can take care of business."

"It's _my_ business," Leanne murmured darkly. Sam looked at her pointedly.

"You forget whose body you took up residence in?" She didn't answer, her eyes lowered. "I know what desperate revenge feels like, Leanne, but you've gotta trust me when I say I'm gonna help you, all the way to the end. We owe each other that much." She took a deep breath and let it out, nodding slowly.

"Okay," she said. "So what's the plan?"

* * *

When it boiled down to it, there really wasn't much of one. Five days was too short of a time to interview and gather scant information on the short description that Leanne gave, even if Wahoo was a small city. Plan B then was, of course, waiting until the night of the next half moon at the killer's dumping grounds, as he seemed consistent in his twice a month killing sprees. Sam was banking on the fact that he would bring the victim alive but unconscious, if the murderer was still keeping with the tradition of burying them. He tried to stuff away the guilt of not being able to save whoever the victim would be before they became entangled in something they might never recover from, but unless they wanted to look for the proverbial needle in a haystack, they had no choice.

Predictably, this left Leanne antsy and distracted, but Sam didn't have the heart to feel annoyed. Conversation helped, Sam telling her about his and Dean's life, smoothing over the rougher details that would warrant more information than Sam was willing to divulge. Sometimes Leanne chattered incessantly, weirdly opposite from her moping and glowering around the motel room only hours previous. With still two days to go Sam decided a quick run to the grocery store wouldn't hurt.

"And then I decided, you know, I have all these credits, why not transfer them over to something I like? Not that sociology isn't interesting, 'cause it is, but I've always been more interested in politics, I guess. Ooh, I took this one class, um, Intro to Public Administration, and my professor was such a _bitch_ I couldn't believe it. She _never_ posted assignments in time and then would shit bricks when hardly anyone came in with their stuff done!"

It was weird enough still seeing Dean seated next to him on the passenger side. But hearing those words coming out of Dean's mouth was like Sam had stepped into an alternate dimension.

"…but _no_ one could be that moronic, or at least that's what I thought, because seriously, who would ask that? I mean, you're a sophomore for God's sake, you don't think that—_SAM!_"

Sam's foot hit the brake at record speed, sending the Impala fishtailing at Leanne's sudden outburst. His face twisted in fear and confusion as he looked over to her, about to demand what the hell was the problem.

But it wasn't her brown eyes that stared back at him.

"Oh God, _Sam_," Dean moaned, clutching at his head. "Get her out of my head, Jesus Christ, _fuck_, get her out!"

"Dean," Sam said desperately, quickly shifting into park and reaching over to put both hands on Dean's shoulders. "Dean, I'm trying, we're so close. Can you fight her? Dean!"

"_Fuck_, she's—she just wants—Sam you _gotta_—"

"I know Dean, I know, you just have to hold on, I promise—" But Dean gave one final grimace and then slumped forward onto Sam's shoulders.

Sam's chest heaved at the sudden rush of adrenaline, and he looked around to see his skewed parking job, still half on the road. Dean breathed evenly on his chest.

"This is getting a little old," Sam mumbled shakily, positioning Dean so he was lying against the glass. He turned around, driving back to the motel, disregard food until a later time.

Two days was two days too long.

* * *

Dean—or Leanne, Sam wasn't exactly sure at this point—slept off the rest of the night, and Leanne woke up a little after Sam did with a headache and no memory of what happened in the car. Sam figured that was for the best.

Sam took to his laptop to see if he could find any last minute information and Leanne stalked around the room, Dean's body a tight coil of unused energy. Business as usual, as far as Sam was concerned. They watched the hours slip by until finally night came and found Leanne sleeping uneasily, Sam's eyes half on her as he watched a Law and Order marathon, finally falling asleep late into the night.

The next day was nearly the same as the one previous, the only difference being that Sam made doubly sure that his Taurus was clean and ready for the coming night. He sharpened his favorite knife as well, just in case, Leanne eyeing him and the weapons from across the room but saying nothing.

As soon as dusk started falling away into night they climbed into the car, Dean's body almost vibrating with Leanne's desperation for vengeance, though Sam could tell she did her best to hide it.

"Listen," he pulled onto a smaller road that pulled away from the main highway, getting closer to the unofficial graveyard. "I know how badly you want him dead, but you follow my lead, understand? Everything could go sideways real quick if we aren't careful." Dean was stony-faced, but Leanne grit his teeth as she spoke.

"I want to do it."

Angry spirits and their singular, bloodthirsty focus. He almost sighed in impatience. "Follow my lead, Leanne."

The last bit of light was dimming fast as Sam pulled to a stop, the rest of the way being on foot. He tucked his Taurus against his back and pulled his shirt over it, his knife sheathed in its holder around his side. Leanne was staring with a faraway expression in the direction where they had first found her.

"Ready?" Sam asked. She shrugged but couldn't quite hide the twitch in Dean's fingers.

The overgrown dry grass whispered around Sam's legs, getting steadily thicker the farther they went into the uninhabited expanse of thin forest. The half moon was already up high in the sky, cut sharp and stark against the velvety dark blue, a bright and shining symbol of an innocent someone's impending death.

_Never again_ Sam thought, glancing behind him to Dean's shadowed figure. Leanne's brown eyes looked steadily back at him.

They finally neared the burial grounds and Sam was relieved to find that everything was still untouched from the last time he had visited. A few mounds of dirt like long lumps protruding from the earth dotted the area, the only evidence of the Winchester's attempt to put the angry spirits to rest. Sam pulled Leanne behind a thick clump of overgrown weedy grass and small trees, and they crouched together, straining to hear or see anything that would resemble Leanne's own nightmare.

Leanne's tension was slowly filtering over into Sam as minutes crept by into an hour, and then two. It was completely dark, the pale light from the moon doing them hardly any good. Sam shifted again just to feel the cold steel of his gun still sitting against his back.

"Did you hear that?" Leanne said suddenly, locking on to point like a dog just to the right of them. Sam grabbed at her in fear of her just running off, but she stayed still, listening.

A rustle, a heavy march over dying grass.

They waited until he came into view, carrying a body laid out in both hands with its head lolling over the man's arm, and in the weak moonlight Sam was suddenly reminded of those old cheesy horror movies that Dean and he watched together on old snowy television sets. A monster carrying its unconscious victim away to unseen horrors.

Sam felt something swipe against his hip and then he saw Leanne running full force at the man.

"Shit!" he hissed, and he sprinted towards the glinting silver in Dean's hand.

His intent was to tackle her, at least, but the red haze of vengeance was all Leanne could see, and there was nothing stopping her from taking what she wanted.

The man froze, dropping the unconscious woman's body, his face twisted in fear and anger like an animal cornered and ready to strike. Leanne let out an angry, murderous cry, Sam's knife slashing downwards, but he jumped back and moved just quick enough to throw his palm upwards and out, hitting Dean's nose square on.

_For fuck's_ sake!, Sam's mind screamed as Leanne howled in pain. But in the next split second she went after him again, swiping the knife wide and catching the man across the stomach, and blood blossomed across his shirt.

Sam slammed into her then while the man doubled over in pain, and he tried to pull the knife out of a white knuckle grip. It disturbed him to hear the choked, animal-like noises coming out of Dean's throat, so desperate to kill. "Leanne, stop it! _Leanne_!"

"Let me go, let me _go!_ Gonna kill him, get the fuck off me—" With one final violent twist she threw him off, hard, and Sam stumbled backwards. He reached for his gun but in the back of his mind he knew it wouldn't matter. He'd be too late to get off any kind of clean shot.

The man had one arm around the slice in his stomach and was advancing towards her, but she had the automatic advantage and a motive that ran deeper than anything on the mortal plane.

Sam heard more than saw the sharp pop and squelch of the knife reaching its intended target. The knife hilt stuck out of the man's chest right over the heart, his hands frantically running over and around it but unable to do anything. He fell to his knees in front of her as she watched, her breathing heavy and her hard eyes clear of any guilt. Just before he fell any further, she pulled the knife back out with a wet, sucking noise, ignoring his shout of agony, and pushed him backwards with Dean's booted foot. Before Sam could even process the fact, the knife dove forward again so forcefully that it went straight through the man's upper arm, effectively pinning him. Leanne pulled it out again, finding nearly every bit of soft flesh and ripping it open with frightening intensity. Blood coated Dean's fingers, his shirt, staining the black soil, the man's life draining into the graveyard of all his other murders.

Sam grabbed her arm on an upswing, the man's body now mutilated enough. He twitched once, his eyes rolling in their sockets, and fell still.

"Leanne…" Sam said softly. She looked up at him, giving a small weary smile through the blood that was streaming down Dean's nose and splattered across his forehead and cheeks. Sam saw her face, not Dean's, the double-image of her young face, not so helpless, not now.

Sam caught the body of his brother as he slumped backwards again, as Sam knew he would.

* * *

Sam quickly checked the body of the middle-aged woman who was intended to be the next victim, finding her only unconscious with a growing lump on the top of her skull. For a long moment he looked over to Dean before assuring himself that he would be fine in the ten minutes it took to carry the woman to the car.

Didn't mean he exactly took his time getting back to his brother.

"Dean." He tapped softly on his cheek and wiped away as much blood from Dean's fingers as he could without getting coated in it himself. "C'mon, man." Dean groaned loudly, flinching away from Sam's fingers. When his eyes fluttered open Sam was overwhelmed with relief to see his normal green.

"That was shitty," Dean croaked, grimacing. "So, so shitty." Sam couldn't help but laugh a little. "Aw, Christ," Dean said, gingerly touching his nose and wiping away blood from his upper lip. "Sam. Why the fuck is my nose broken." Sam let out a breath.

"Looks like Mr. Mass Murderer had a few skills," he said.

"Ah, God." Dean tried rising up on his elbows but opted for ground a little longer. "What happened to that fucker?" Dean went still and his eyes widened slightly. "Sam. Please tell me you didn't… I mean, I know what he did, but tell me _you_ didn't—"

"I didn't."

"Sam."

"Dean." Sam took one of Dean's hands and put it in front of Dean's face. "This isn't all your blood, man."

"So… _I_ did, then."

"Technically, no. Leanne did."

"Leanne, huh. So that was her name? Well, okay. As long as we're clear on that." Sam pulled him up into a sitting position and threw an arm around his own shoulder, ready to haul him to his feet. Dean huffed and swore and went pale but he was up and after a few minutes, he could walk.

"I would've," Sam said.

"Sam, no, you—"

"Dean." He looked his brother in the eye. "I would've." Dean let his eyes drop, his jaw working.

"I need a Vicoden and a bed right the hell now," he finally said. "And so help me God, if you make any cracks about being possessed by a chick, your ass is grass."

"As soon as you can actually stand on your own, I'm sure."

"As—" Dean frowned. "Not the point. I need drugs. Start walkin'."

"I'm sure they're somewhere in your purse," Sam said lightly, and pursed his lips together to keep from smiling so hard he was sure his face would crack in half.

"Your ass," Dean growled. "Is so kicked."

Slowly, one foot in front of the other, they made their way back together to the car.


End file.
